


My, She Was Yar

by blueink3



Series: Tumblr Prompts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cinema AU, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, John Works in a Movie Theatre, M/M, Mention of Sex for Drugs, Non-Graphic Violence, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YAR: adjective<br/>(nautical term, of a sailboat) agile, quick, easily manoeuvred</p><p>Or, the exact opposite of what Sherlock Holmes is when he stumbles into John Watson's cinema and turns his life upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My, She Was Yar

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from @missmuffin221: If you're still doing fics, I'd really really like to have one involving going to the cinema.

_"Yar? What's that mean?"_  
_"It means... oh, what does it mean? Easy to handle. Quick to the helm. Fast. Bright. Everything a boat should be. Until she develops dry rot."_

_\- The Philadelphia Story_

Taking tickets and loading reels at the old school cinema on the border of Clapham and Brixton was not a bad gig going on a Friday or Saturday night. It was never overwhelming, but business was steady. Dependable. It was every other day of the week that made John want to gouge his eyes out with a dirty spoon.

Being an independently owned picture house, it was rare that they got to show the latest hit. Those were snatched up by bigger, trendier, more technologically savvy cinemas in the heart of the city. Still, John has a certain fondness for the rundown brick building that perpetually smells like buttered popcorn and sweet chocolate. It is his home away from home, after all, and the sole source of income that gets him out of his dysfunctional house and into a shabby one room flat near the college.

John glances at his watch and silently bemoans the fact that he has another five hours left of his shift. It's only gone 7pm. The last showing begins at 9pm. Classic films aren't exactly everyone's bread and butter. Unless you're trying to impress a date, like the bloke who just walked in looking like he's already strategizing how to get his arm around the girl next to him when they get into the theatre. John glances at their tickets with a well-honed smile: Hitchcock double feature, _Psycho_ and _The Birds_. Shouldn't be hard if she's the easily frightened type, John thinks, and he gives the guy an encouraging nod as they pass.

The minutes drag on, but thankfully, there aren't any projector crises like last week. Mike came flying out of the theatre saying that the film had caught fire, Molly burst into tears behind the concessions counter, and John was the only one with enough wits to grab the fire extinguisher. Luckily, it was the final showing on a Tuesday and the only patrons had been two older couples and a young man. Boy, really. Hard to forget, actually. He was tall and gangly, with a shock of dark, curly hair and eyes that - John inhales deeply at the memory - eyes that seemed to flay you down to the very marrow of your bones. The older couples were very gracious about the complimentary passes John handed out to apologize for the inconvenience, but the boy seemed annoyed more than anything, and not at the circumstances. He kept glancing at his phone as if waiting for someone who refused to call before stalking out into the night and pulling the hood of his jacket over his head.

It is now the following Monday and John is hoping that perhaps the stranger will make a repeat appearance tonight. He isn't holding his breath, though. Hitchcock isn't everyone's cup of tea.  

At 8:53pm, he nods at Mike as the man heads into the theatre to load the reel. Molly is serving popcorn and beverages to a young couple who've come in for the late showing of _North by Northwest._ Everything is business as usual and he tugs at the collar of his cinema-issued shirt and checks to make sure he hasn't splattered butter on it. It may only be a job, and a shitty one at that, but he's the first person people see and he'd like to make a decent impression. Perhaps even hold a candle to the matinee men the screens show every night. Then he thinks of Cary Grant and snorts in self-deprecation. _Yeah right._

"He's back," Mike murmurs as he sidles up to him, but John doesn't lift his head from counting the ticket stubs.

"Who's back?"

"Mr. Aloof."

John's head snaps up, because there's really only one person Mike could be referring to, and sure enough, there he is. The boy hovers by the doorway, tapping away on his phone and lifting his eyes for the occasional glance out into the night. His tight black jeans are ripped, one leg crossed over the other, boots resting side by side, hood down. "Aloof." That's one word for him. John thinks his outfit practically screams, "teenage rebellion," but he pulls it off. Really, really well.

Mike snickers next to him and John starts, realizing he's been caught staring at the boy. He clears his throat and starts the count over, having thoroughly lost his place.

"Uh oh," Mike mutters and John sighs as he looks up again, already knowing that attempting to track the stubs will be fruitless as long as the kid loiters in the lobby. Especially since an exceptionally attractive man has approached the boy and is exchanging a few pleasantries. Yeah, John won't be getting _any_ work done, not with that particular brand of jealousy roiling in his gut.

_Jesus, get a hold of yourself, Watson._

He clears his throat again, well aware that Mike is watching him watch them. They wander up to the concession and the older bloke buys the kid a pack of Maltesers, while getting a small tub of popcorn for himself. He's not much older - maybe mid-twenties - but the kid can't be older than John and John is just gone 20 himself. Seventeen, possibly. Eighteen tops.

He manages to collect himself (the elbow from Mike helps) as they approach. The older guy hands John his ticket to tear with a bright smile and John's answering one is just a bit more forced. Of course he'd be bloody gorgeous. The man moves out of the way and next up is Mr. Aloof, eyes downcast, hand not holding the ticket stuffed into his pocket.

John finds the words leaving his mouth long before he can think to bite them back. "Did you lose your pass?"

"What?" the boy asks, stopping briefly as his... date heads into the theatre.

"Your free pass for the fire last week," John replies with a bit more confidence, because he's already started down this path. Can't abandon ship now. "If you lost it, I can give you another."

"Oh." And only then does the boy actually meet John's gaze, causing the breath to leave his lungs as if someone had squeezed them like a sponge. "Saving it for a special occasion," he murmurs with a quirk of his lips and John flushes pink, despite the fact that nothing untoward had actually been said.

The boy raises his stub in thanks and continues on into the theatre, ripping open the Maltesers as he goes.

John sits heavily on the stool behind him, pondering (not for the first time) just how bloody fucked he is.

xxxxxx

He comes in that Wednesday as well. New movie. New date. He generally looks like the world has done him some great wrong, but he gives John a small smile as he passes.

They exit when the movie is finished _(Citizen Kane-_ 8pm showing _)_. The boy's hair looks a little ruffled, his clothes a little rumpled, but not necessarily more so than usual. His date, though, can't seem to wipe the blissed out smile from his face.

It might be the first time John genuinely hates his job.

xxxxxx

John is off on Thursday, but Mike texts him to say that the kid came in again. Not alone. Again.

He thinks about asking if it's one of the blokes he was with this week, but the leaden weight he feels pressing against his chest is already giving him his answer. He buries his face in his hands and ignores the homework on his lap _,_ unsure what to do. The small telly in the corner is blaring _Doctor Who_ and, right now, he wants nothing more than to go to bed and pull the covers up over his head. He's the manager. He has an obligation to the other patrons and particularly the owner, dear Mrs. Hudson, who would hit the roof if she knew sexual favors were being granted in her cinema.

John doesn't know if money is being exchanged, but obviously something is. He realizes now why the kid doesn't come in on weekends. Too many people. It hits him, too, just why he was so annoyed by the previous week's fire. His date hadn't shown up yet and he'd lost out on whatever he'd been guaranteed. If it's money, it's going quickly, going by the state of his clothes and his frequency at the films. If it's drugs, well - John rubs his forehead and makes a mental note to check the kid's eyes when he next hands over his ticket.

He sees him again the following Monday, with someone new. When it happens again on Thursday, John knows his suspicions are correct (as badly as he wanted to be proven wrong). Mike's pitying looks aren't helping matters.

"Might be time to tell Mrs. Hudson," he murmurs on a Wednesday evening when there's, thankfully, no sign of the boy in sight.

John nods. "I'll see if I can take care of it first. Don't want to bother her with it."

Mrs. Hudson is the least of their worries if the cops catch on. Hell, they have a DI who comes in regularly for the Steve McQueen flicks.

John swallows hard yet smiles at a group of girls here for the 9pm showing of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ and almost wishes that the boy would never darken his doorway again, if only to save himself from the conversation that needs to be had.

xxxxxx

It's two weeks before John sees him again and those two weeks have apparently not been kind. He looks washed out and thinner than usual, and he didn't have much leeway in that department to begin with.

He's alone, thank God, which means the conversation can wait, but his hands shake as he hands over his ticket. His skin is sallow and the area beneath his eyes looks nearly bruised with how purple it is. John is sure that if he lifted his sleeve, he'd find track marks in the crook of his elbow. _Stupid, stupid man._

"You all right?" John can't help but ask as the boy shuffles forward, forgoing his usual Maltesers.

He nods, but refuses to meet John's concerned gaze as he moves to the take the ticket. John holds on when the boy tugs and he looks up in confusion, eyes darting from the stub back to John.

"You don't have to do this," he murmurs and his breath catches as the boy's eyes widen, making him look impossibly young and horribly vulnerable.

"How would you know?" the kid rasps, but it contains no bite. Just exhaustion.

John pulls out a bottle of water from under his stand and hands it to him. "I wouldn't."

The boy cocks his head and looks at him strangely, like the concern on John's face is an entirely foreign concept to him. And perhaps it is.

"John," he murmurs, holding out his hand.

The boy glances at it with a startled look before slowly bringing his arm up to clasp it. His grip is weak so John holds on firm.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock," John repeats with a smile. "Nice to meet you."

The boy - Sherlock - gives a stiff nod, but the expression on his face has changed. He still looks like he's been ridden hard and put away wet, but there's a softness to his features. Not a smile, but close. Hope, perhaps.

Sherlock shuffles off to the theatre, bottle of water clutched in his hands.

John is still watching when he turns just before the doors and gives him one last ambiguous look.

xxxxxx

He doesn't come back for another week.

John pretends he doesn't think about him. Doesn't worry about him. Doesn't _miss_ him.

God, he's pathetic.

It's early on a Wednesday and he's waiting for the older couple to get their popcorn for the 5pm showing of _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington._ They're taking their time so he allows his eyes to drift to the paper Mike left on the stand and check the score of the match. Wednesdays are slow, particularly at this time of day, which is why he's so caught off-guard when a familiar voice rumbles behind him.

"What's on this week?" it asks and John jumps.

"Uh - Jimmy Stewart marathon," he manages with only a minor hitch. He turns and licks his lips. Sherlock's eyes are immediately drawn to them. John returns the favor, feeling his ears heat.

He looks infinitely better than last time. His skin is not as pale, his eyes are brighter and his cheeks don't look quite as gaunt as they did. He bites his lip and shuffles his boots, fiddling with the small yellow slip of paper in his hand, granting him access to the film showing of his choice for free.

It takes John a second to recognize the pass from the fire and a second longer for Sherlock's words to come back to him:

_Saving it for a special occasion._

John blinks down at it and takes it gently, registering acutely that Sherlock is alone this evening.

"Which do you recommend?" he asks, gesturing to the films' posters on the wall.

"All of them," John replies without hesitation.

"Fan?"

"Big one."

"Favorite?"

John points to the poster for _The Philadelphia Story. "_ It's on at 7:30pm. _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_ is up first. If you hurry, you can catch it."

"All right," Sherlock replies, tugging on the string to his hoodie beneath his coat.

"Hey, Molly," John calls as the older couple step away from the counter. "Toss me a pack of Maltesers?" She nods and heaves one in his direction. He manages to catch it and holds it out for Sherlock to take. "On me," he murmurs and the smile he gets in return is genuine this time.

"Thank you, John."

He disappears into the theatre and John watches him go. Molly's grinning at him as she props her elbow on the counter and drops her chin in her hand.

“I’ll pay for the Maltesers,” he says and her grin only widens.

“I bet you will.”

He snorts and shakes his head, eyebrows high. He didn’t even know she had the sauciness in her.

Mike pops in and out as the film progresses, giving John updates on how Sherlock seems to be liking it. So far, it's thumbs up all around and when Sherlock exits, his eyes are red and not for the reason that gave John so many sleepless nights over the past few weeks.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hello,” Sherlock replies.

"Enjoy it?" 

"Immensely." 

"I'm glad," John smiles. "I've got to help clean up for the next showing. You… sticking around?”

“For your favorite?” Sherlock asks. “Wouldn't miss it.”

“Good,” John replies and tries to keep said smile from taking over his face.

“But first - got a light?” Sherlock asks and John can't hide his disappointment as the boy pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his incredibly skinny trousers. “Giving up one addiction at a time, thank you very much,” he grumbles.

John chuckles. Yes, he'll take the lesser of two evils. “Try Ryan in the box office. He, too, is killing himself slowly.”

“Dramatic,” Sherlock drawls and winks ( _winks_ ), before whispering, _“_ Back in a jiff,” and striding outside.

John groans as he hoists the broom over his shoulder and turns into the theatre. Four words should not be enough to make him half-hard in his trousers.

He helps Mike sweep up the popcorn and toss out the candy boxes and by the time he resumes his post at 7:20pm, Sherlock has yet to return. Probably still inhaling his death sticks, John thinks sourly but fondly.

But 7:30pm rolls around and then 7:45pm. John remains at his stand throughout the film, even though he usually tries to sneak in and catch his favorite parts on a big screen… but Sherlock never comes back.

John tries desperately not to be disappointed by it.

xxxxxx

He watches the customers file out of the theatre after the final film’s credits roll and he reminds himself not to look for a curly head among the crowd.

Mike had asked him after _The Philadelphia Story_ wrapped where Mr. Aloof had gone but John could only shrug. He tried to be nonchalant, but he's pretty sure it came off wounded more than anything else, if the look of pity Mike gave him is anything to go by.

He sighs as he locks up, already looking forward to a shower and a beer when he spies Ryan waiting for the bus on the corner.

“Oi, Dimmock!” he calls and Ryan turns so John jogs to catch him. “A guy came out here earlier looking to bum a light from you. Remember him?”

“Yeah, tall bloke,” Ryan replies, blowing smoke into the air. “Kinda odd. Polite, but odd.”

“Did you see where he went?”  

“Mm,” Ryan pauses to take another pull, before gesturing to the area in front of the box office. “Some other bloke came up to him. Seemed to know him. They exchanged a few words and disappeared into the alley. I figured he was cutting through to the next lane. People do it all the time.” He shrugs. “If he came back my way, I didn’t see him, but I was pretty slammed. Jimmy Stewart’s a popular one.”

John wants to respond, but his insides have turned to ice.

_Some other bloke... Seemed to know him… Disappeared into the alley._

“Thanks,” he finally croaks, but he daren’t speak further. Ryan simply nods and stubs out his cigarette as the bus pulls up.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls as he boards and John manages a wave as it drives off.

He glances at the alley and the shadows that play tricks in the night. How many dirty deeds have hidden in its corners? How many men has Sherlock…?

He groans and shakes his head. Not his problem. Not his boyfriend. Not even his friend, really. If the cops were to come, John would only be able to give them a first name and a standard uniform of dress not unlike most of the teenagers who haunt this particular part of town.

Still - John always has been a glutton for punishment and the pull of the alley’s secrets is proving too strong to ignore. What does he expect to find, though? A used condom? A dirty needle?

_Not your boyfriend. Not your business._

The light from the lamppost fades away as he steps up to the mouth of the darkness. He really should get going if he doesn't want to miss the last train, and yet -

He squints as he thinks he sees something move, but then a groan echoes off the stone buildings around them and John briefly wonders if this is what people mean when they say their heart’s stopped.

“Jesus,” he breathes, running into the alley and pulling out his mobile as a torch. He knows, he _knows..._

“John?” the voice comes again and something inside John breaks. Confirmation.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he whispers, dropping down to his knees in front of him. “What did that bastard do to you?”

His cheek is cut and his lip is split. His left eye is nearly swollen shut and he cradles his wrist against his body.

“Mm fine,” he mutters and John laughs out a bitter scoff. It comes out wetter than he’d like.

“Shut up.” His medical training (what little he has so far) kicks in and he gently feels around Sherlock’s head for any lumps or abrasions and is relieved when he finds none. He then gently takes Sherlock’s wrist, wincing when the boy hisses, and shines the light over it.

“Can you move it?”

“Some.” To prove it, Sherlock bends it up and down gingerly, biting on his lip to not make a noise.

“Where else?” John asks, surprising even himself at his professional detachment. He can’t think about the fact that this is the boy he’s been pining over for weeks. That he’s been worried about and angry at and smitten with because he’ll freeze up and Sherlock can’t afford that right now.

“Ribs a bit. Not bad.”

John gentle feels around his torso and marvels at the fact that Sherlock manages to give him a sauncy wink even as John hits a tender spot and he arches in pain.

“We need to get you to a hospital - ”

“No!” Sherlock yells, grabbing hold of his wrist, looking frightened for the first time. “No hospitals.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what this arsehole did to you. You could be bleeding internally for all I - “

“I’m not. He kicked me twice. Hard enough to bruise a rib, not enough to break it. You know this as you’ve seen beating victims before, probably in your own home, but your medical training is telling you to be overly cautious. First years are like that. But I know my body and, I assure you, I am fine.”

It’s the most Sherlock has said to him since they met and John marvels at the cadences in his voice. The fire in his eyes. The curve of his lips.

_Now is NOT the time, Watson._

He clears his throat and wipes his hands on his thighs. “All right. No hospitals. But you’re coming home with me and letting me patch you up.” It’s not a request, it’s an order, and Sherlock seems to understand that. In fact, his eyes soften (well, the one that can see) as he gazes at John’s face long enough to memorize it. John squirms under the scrutiny. It’s that look again, flaying him through skin and muscle, organ and bone, down to the very marrow beneath.

He sighs and looks around them: at the seedy alley with its rotting garbage. At the stray cat darting in and out of the bins. Then he looks down at Sherlock’s torn clothes, stained with drops of the boy’s own blood, and his throat goes tight. He tries to swallow through it and can’t quite manage.

"Don't do this anymore," he whispers. Begs, even. "Please."

Sherlock looks up at him and, ever so slowly, curls his fingers around John’s wrist. "I didn’t."

“What?”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock repeats. “I said ‘no." He smiles wryly. "He didn't take too kindly to it." 

 _Oh God._  "Did he - "

"No," Sherlock cuts him off, saving him from having to say it. 

John closes his eyes and exhales slowly, attempting to rein in the immediate urge to find this bastard and gut him. Sherlock’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist and his thumb begins rubbing small circles over John’s pulse point. As if he’s the one offering comfort.

John leans down and presses their foreheads together, breathing in this stranger who seems to have captivated him body and soul.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Sherlock replies just as quietly.

John pulls away and presses a chaste kiss on his forehead. “You don’t have to.”

Sherlock smiles, causing fresh blood to drip down his chin. John wipes it away with his thumb. “I know that now.”

xxxxxx

John kicks the door open and tosses the keys on the counter before getting his arm back around Sherlock’s waist and helping him hobble to the small table in the corner. Sherlock paid for the cab despite John’s protestations, but really, they were in no state for public transportation.

“Don’t move. I just need to get my kit.” He disappears into the meager toilet and pulls the small bag from the cabinet.

"I was right,” Sherlock calls. “You are training to be a doctor."

John hums in the affirmative as he grabs the rubbing alcohol, before exiting the loo and watching Sherlock inspect his textbook.

"And yet you work in a cinema."

"Got to put food on the table somehow," he mutters, not really eager to have his life's choices questioned by someone whose opinion John shouldn't care about. Not much, anyway.

_Liar._

“Tilt your head back,” he instructs as he pulls on gloves and examines the cut on his cheek first. “This doesn’t need stitches. Just keep it clean and you should barely have a scar. Can you do that?”

Sherlock rolls his one good eye. “Yes, Doctor.”

John snorts and soaks some gauze in alcohol. “This is going to sting.”

“I’ve had worse,” Sherlock murmurs and John meets his eyes, gently running his thumb across the other boy’s eyebrow.

“I know.”

Sherlock smiles, splitting his lip again, but John doesn’t have the heart to tell him not to. He works quietly and methodically, cleaning his cuts and getting him a package of frozen peas for his face. He bites back every question he has, every request for information he has no right to, as he pushes Sherlock’s hair off his face (an entirely unnecessary move seeing as he’s placing the bandage on his cheekbone).

“You have questions,” Sherlock says after a moment and John chuckles.

“Can’t get anything past you.”

“Well?” he asks and John reconsiders as he glances down at Sherlock looking every bit his age.

He sighs. “How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long has it been going on?”

He shrugs, a gesture befitting the seventeen-year-old he is. “A few months. I made… friends. Not nice ones. They got me into some things that I shouldn’t have been getting into.”

“Heroine?” John asks and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks.

“Cocaine. But whatever was accessible, really.”

John nods and gets to work cleaning the blood from his chin. “Have you been tested?”

“Every week.”

John’s eyebrows hit his hairline. Impressive. A junkie with meticulous habits. Who knew? “When was your last hit?”

If Sherlock is irritated by the interrogation, he doesn’t let it show. “Three weeks ago.”

John sucks in a breath when he realizes that three weeks ago was around the time he and Sherlock spoke for the first time. The cotton ball hovers over Sherlock’s skin in his hand.

“I was detoxing when you saw me later,” the boy says gently. “I came in alone. You told me that I didn’t have to do this.” He licks his lips, frowning slightly at the taste of copper on his tongue. “It was the most groundbreaking thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

John barely breathes as a tear tracks down Sherlock’s cheek.

“I really did want to see that movie, you know.”

John clears his throat and if his eyes are a bit glassy, well, Sherlock is kind enough not to comment. “I think you’re in luck then.”

He turns and tosses the used medical supplies in the bin, removing the gloves as well, before heading towards the bookshelf and the rather meager offerings on it. He holds up the DVD case of _The Philadelphia Story_ and Sherlock chuckles.

"You really weren't kidding when you said it was your favorite."

"Would I ever lie to you?" he asks with a wry smile, but Sherlock's expression is entirely earnest.

"Undetermined. Need more data.”

“Happy to provide it,” he quietly replies.

They sit on the sad excuse for a sofa and pop in the film. John orders out some Thai because he’s pretty sure the cinema has ruined popcorn for him for life. And if he can’t take Sherlock to the hospital, then at least he’ll try to get some meat on his bones.

The movie begins and John could practically recite it in his sleep. It was a favorite of his Mum’s and it was how they spent their Sunday afternoons before he got too old and too cool to watch with her. Before she got too battered and too sick to even attempt a moment of levity. He closes his eyes against the memory and sinks further into the sofa. The cushion dips, bringing Sherlock closer to him, thigh to thigh, but neither moves.

Halfway through, stuffed from too much pad thai, John is finding that watching Sherlock is nearly as fascinating as watching the film. He seems utterly engrossed, laughing at the shenanigans happening between exes Tracy Lord, play by Katharine Hepburn, and CK Dexter Haven, played by Cary Grant. He’s seen it so many times, that it’s almost jarring when Sherlock laughs out loud. He almost forgot how funny it is. Almost.

They’re nearly at the end and John sucks in a breath as Sherlock places his head on his shoulder.

“ _She was quite a boat, the True Love, wasn't she?_ ” _Dexter asks and Tracy smiles._

_“Was and… is,” she replies and they are no longer talking about the boat they sailed together on their honeymoon._

_“My, she was yar.”_

_“She was yar, all right.” She looks at him. “I wasn't, was I?”_

_“Not very.”_

He’s half asleep by the time the film ends and Sherlock has shifted from merely resting his head against John’s shoulder to leaning against John’s entire chest, with John’s left arm draped over his shoulder, holding him as tightly as he can with his injuries.

“John?” Sherlock murmurs, sounding semi-conscious himself.

“Hm?”

“You’re yar.”

He smiles, sleepily and contentedly, breathing through the tightening in his chest as he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hair.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

xxxxxx

 **Came clean to parents. Pun**  
**intended. See you in 28 days.**  
**-SH**

That’s the text John wakes to the following morning, after he finds himself alone on the couch, leftovers having been placed in the fridge, and telly turned off. He rereads the message for good measure and smiles, thankful that Sherlock is getting the help he needs, even if it means not seeing him for a month. Going cold turkey is one thing. Maintaining it is an entirely different beast.

He doesn't bother wondering how on earth Sherlock got his number. 

They email. John sends him movie recs; apparently the facility has no shortage of old school films. Sherlock mainly complains about the state of the food and bemoans the fact that no one dresses up like they did in 1954. John pretends he isn’t counting down the days until he’s released.

On the 29th day, Sherlock does not come to the cinema. Nor does he come on the 30th. John texts and asks how freedom is, but the only response he gets is **Good.**

A hollowness is growing in the pit of his chest because who’s to say that Sherlock will even come back at all? His visits had been for one reason only and those are (hopefully) moot by this point.

John rubs his forehead on Day 31 and manages smile after smile for the patrons filing in for the final weekend of the Jimmy Stewart marathon. The credits for _The Philadelphia Story_ are rolling and John grabs his broom, ready to make the changeover into the evening’s last showing.

"You ready?" he asks Mike, who strolls up to him looking entirely too smug, takes John’s broom from his hand, and tosses his non-work shirt at him. John frowns. “What’s going on?”

"You're relieved,” Mike replies.

"What?"

"Of duty. You’re relieved.”

Is this a test? He glances around, as if looking for a hidden camera. “Mike, it’s Friday night. I work until closing.”

But Mike merely rocks back on his heels, looking quite like the cat who got the cream. “I believe you have plans."

Now he’s completely baffled. "For what?"

And only then does he notice Sherlock standing in the corner - perfect, beautiful Sherlock in a button down shirt and pressed trousers - holding up two tickets. John cocks his head, frowning, but Sherlock nods towards the final poster on the wall for the last film he managed to miss that horrific evening.

_It's a Wonderful Life._

John smiles. Then, he laughs.

You know, sometimes, it really is.

 


End file.
